Jupiter | Harry Potter

post war ; jupiter's clingyness

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 300K! This is a legit dream come true and I am so thankful for all of you who take the time out of your day to read my work. Here is a cutesy little one shot out of thanks. 😊

March, 2003

Jupiter Potter had always been a rather formidable person. She could outfly several players in the league, diagnose a fracture at twenty paces, and argue a Ministry official into submission before breakfast. She was sharp, independent, bossy, and—according to her husband—alarmingly good at remembering petty arguments from five years prior.

So it came as a bit of a surprise to both of them that after seven months of carrying two little humans inside of her, she had become... well, not soft, exactly. But clingy. Dramatically, unapologetically clingy.

The bedroom was still a disaster, but Jupiter wasn't concerned about that. There were unopened boxes lining the far wall, one of which she was pretty sure still contained Harry's dress robes, a spare broomstick, and a single shoe. The walls were still mostly bare except for a crooked photo of their wedding day and the Muggle television Harry had installed last month—mostly as a joke, initially. Jupiter had been suspicious of it at first, muttering about "weird humming noises" and "foreign electricity," but now she was fully, irreversibly obsessed.

She was curled up on the side of the bed closest to the nightstand, legs tangled in the sheets, remote balanced precariously on the swell of her stomach. The movie playing on screen—a black-and-white Muggle film involving a lot of arguing, dramatic hats, and someone named Cary Grant—was only half holding her attention.

What she really wanted was company.

More specifically: her husband.

"Harry!" she called, not taking her eyes off the screen.

A beat. Then from downstairs: "Yeah, babe?"

"Come here!"

"I'm cooking!"

"I don't care!"

There was a pause, and then the familiar creak of the stairs as Harry trudged up them. He appeared a few seconds later in the doorway, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a dish towel flung over one shoulder. His dark hair was messier than usual—probably from running his hands through it in exasperation—and his expression was caught halfway between fond amusement and long-suffering.

Jupiter eyed him approvingly. She was not, as a rule, the sort of woman who swooned, but there was something deeply satisfying about seeing her Quidditch star, world savoir husband looking like a slightly rumpled domestic sitcom husband from a Muggle 80s rerun.

"Come hold me," she said simply.

Harry leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed. "I'm making dinner."

"And I said hold me."

Harry sighed like she'd asked him to chop off a limb, not just walk ten feet and sit down. "You know the chicken's going to overcook if I leave it."

"You know you want to come hold me," Jupiter said, arching an eyebrow.

With another exaggerated groan, Harry pushed off the doorframe and stalked toward the bed like a man walking to his execution—which, to be fair, was how he tended to treat any domestic task he hadn't assigned himself. But the second he dropped down beside her, all huffing ceased. His arms wrapped around her like it was instinct. His face tucked itself into the crook of her neck like it belonged there. And his entire body melted against hers like he had absolutely no intention of ever moving again.

"Two minutes," he grumbled, even as his hand slid beneath the hem of her shirt. "You get two minutes."

"Mm-hmm," Jupiter murmured, smugly victorious, curling her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. "And then what, Potter? You going to leave me for a piece of poultry?"